


Shroud

by Einsteinette



Category: Marvel
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Fandom, M/M, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-04
Updated: 2013-06-04
Packaged: 2017-12-13 22:55:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/829808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Einsteinette/pseuds/Einsteinette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing's been the same, nor will it ever be again. Not since the battle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shroud

I am awake but my eyes are closed, blocking out the terrible pain that is consciousness. Screams and bright, blinding pops of light are flashing behind my eyelids, bringing back the events of nearly one week past. A crash followed by ringing silence. Turning, I spot him, his prone form lying in a settling cloud of dust and rubble. I run to his side, skidding along the pavement and dropping to my knees at his head. I pry off his dented face mask, my gloves being stained scarlet with blood. His breath is shallow and ragged, every one I fear is his last.

"TONY!" somebody is screaming and it is only later I realize it is me. There is too much blood, far too much and I realize he's probably not going to survive this one. The battle is raging on but I stay at his side, cradling his head in my lap.

"Tony..." the word is more of a plea. I'm begging.

"Tony, please, wake up." But he won't, I realize and I cannot bear the thought.

My eyes snap open and I gasp at the ceiling, a cool sheen of sweat settling on my face. I lay there breathing heavily, trying to recover my sanity as I see his face in my mind's eye, broken beyond recognition. I close my eyes again as my breathing slows and I stretch out my hand searching for Tony's warmth. As it was in the past 3 mornings, I feel only, cold, empty space where his body used to lie next to mine. My breathing hitches but I force myself to keep calm, standing abruptly and moving to the mirror. The reflection is that of a dead man's, pale and sickly looking. His hair has grown limp and lack-luster, his clothes are wrinkled and those eyes, usually so full of light, are sunken and dark.

I run my hands over my unkempt head, vainly attempting to smooth the rat's nest of tangled hair. I should shower but I don't and I turn, heading to the door. I feel as if every move I make has been slowed on purpose, as if God is a malicious child and I am his least-favorite play thing. I walk into the living room and my eyes immediately lock on that familiar head of black hair. He's watching T.V. and he only glances at me as I enter, those eyes touching mine for the slightest second. Those eyes that once held so much passion for me, those eyes that stared at me with love, those eyes that will never look at me the same.

"Good morning, Tony." I say warily, nervous as to how he will react to me today. He doesn't look up from the T.V. and I begin to think he hasn't heard me when he turns his head to me in confusion and says "I'm sorry do I know you?"


End file.
